My Foolish Heart

by Susan May Warren

  “Spoken like a true jock.”

  “Hey, my best friend in high school starred in all the plays, so you can take that back. I was kidding.”

  “We didn’t have soccer, and there were three boys in our theater program, all taken.”

  “That’s just not right. A pretty girl like you should have had boys lining up at the door.”

  The word pretty wrapped right around her. “Even if they did, I have . . . rules.”

  “Rules?”

  “Yeah . . .” Except, she suddenly wished she didn’t. Wished she could just trust that the right man might walk into her life without having to be so . . .

  “Rules kept me from dating the wrong guys.”

  “I think rules kept you from dating, period.”

  “Hey—they’re good rules. Like he has to be clean-cut.”

  “It does rule out the rednecks who might show up with a scraggly beard.”

  She smiled. “And there’s the no big trucks rule.”

  “You know, that’s not really mine. I’m just driving it for a friend.”

  “And he has to be well-read.”

  “Did I mention I read the sports section of the Deep Haven Herald cover to cover?”

  “Clearly, you’d have no problem making the list.”

  As soon as the words escaped, she wanted to yank them back, wanted to bury them inside, where they belonged.

  Because, yes, he would make the list. She hoped . . . “Are you a Christian? What do you believe about God?” Please, please. Because even though she hadn’t set foot in her own church in years, and even though God might not want to see her after the way she’d embarrassed Him . . .

  “Yes. I’m a man who loves God and is trying to be His man. And I’m in church every Sunday. Even during football season.”

  “Good.” Her voice emerged high, and she chased it with a smile. A smile that stayed on her mouth too long, especially when he looked at her—or maybe through her—with those amazing blue eyes.

  They could swipe the thoughts right out of her head. Even the ones that might have said no when he leaned over, caught her eyes for a question.

  She wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t used to—

  He kissed her. Sweetly, his fingers brushing her cheek, a kiss that seemed more a whisper against her lips. A taste really, and it ended too fast.

  He pulled back, met her eyes.

  Then he kissed her again, his hand curling around her neck, moving into the kiss, gently but without question.

  Although she hadn’t the first time, she let herself kiss him back. He tasted of sweet peanut sauce and the slightest tang of curry, and his goatee brushed her chin even as she touched his face too.

  Right then, the past two years slipped away, and she was simply a girl, sitting on the front porch, kissing the neighbor boy, lost in the charm of being wanted.

  Of being normal.

  When he pulled away, he wore a smile in his eyes. “I have a little thing for you, Girl Next Door.”

  The way he said it ran a jolt through her, but of course, he couldn’t know about her show, right? The guy probably didn’t even own a computer.

  “Me too,” she said, but it emerged fumbled and not how she’d hoped. Still, he seemed to take it in and eased back against the post.

  “So . . . do you think you’d be willing to go to the football game on Friday?”

  And right then, the moment crashed upon her. The game. Which meant a crowd, which meant that if she started to panic—

  “Issy, are you okay?”

  The swirl began low, a hot circle inside her belly, and she caught her breath. “Uh . . . yeah . . .” Oh no, she was making little whimpering noises. Get control. “Perfect love expels all fear.” And what was that one BoyNextDoor said? “For God has not given us a spirit of—”

  “Issy, you’re white. Listen, you don’t have to go to the game.” He took her arm, and she yelped, yanked it away, making it worse.

  “I gotta . . . I gotta go.” As she stood, she clutched the rail. “Thanks for dinner.”

  Beside her, Caleb had pulled himself to his feet. He grabbed her arm. “Stop. Issy, what did I say? I’m sorry.”

  She pressed her stomach, but the swirl found her chest, tightened. “I . . . can’t. I . . . Thanks for dinner, Caleb.”

  And this was why she couldn’t really be in a relationship. Why she never should have kissed Caleb. Why she was better off dreaming about a man online, through the computer. Because a real man could never love a woman who darted down the stairs and ran back to her home, opening the door and seeking shelter in the safe place behind her piano bench.

  * * *

  Why wasn’t he faster? “Issy!” Caleb hobbled down the stairs, across the lawn, but she’d already slammed her door.

  He never should have mentioned the game. Or maybe . . .

  Could it have been the kiss?

  He had pushed her too fast, and while it took everything inside him not to wrap his arms around her, she’d probably been just trying not to scream.

  Nice, Caleb.

  Only, it had felt like she’d kissed him back. Had felt like she wanted to be in his arms.

  He climbed her steps. Knocked on the door. “Issy!”

  Nothing.

  He tried the handle. Locked.

  Turning, he slumped down onto the porch. He leaned his head against her door. “Issy, I’m sorry.”

  He wanted to tell her he understood. Wanted to tell her that this afternoon, when he’d sprawled on the field, his body mangled, he just wanted to recede into that dark place inside. Wanted to give up and howl.

  But God expected more from him. And after all God had done, Caleb owed it to Him to get up, to pull himself together, to keep moving forward.

  Caleb had debated a long moment before he let Dan hoist him up. And only because he really couldn’t hop all the way across the field on one leg.

  Even if he could, it occurred to him that any of his players might return to the field. And that would surely make for an interesting conversation. Not to mention the end of his coaching bid, because even if the school board did hire him, he’d never know if it was because of his skills or because they were fulfilling some sort of affirmative action clause.

  Dan had lowered him onto the bench. Straddled it as he sat beside him. “Is there something I can do?”

  “Just make sure none of the guys come out.” Then Caleb had lifted his jeans as well as he could and adjusted the prosthesis. It hadn’t come all the way off, just turned on his leg. He lowered his pant leg. “I’ll wait until they’ve cleared out of the locker room, then fix it right.”

  Dan had that look, the one Caleb hadn’t wanted to use to win the job. “I can’t believe it. All this time—”

  “Borrowed time. You knew something was off—I could only hide it for so long. But the thing is, I wanted to wait until after Friday’s game. Until the town could see what I hoped to accomplish with this team. I wanted to earn it.”

  Dan nodded. “I get that. But I can’t get past the fact that it’s also deceitful.”

  “Why? Do you tell your congregation every wound you’ve had?”

  “I never lost a limb.”

  “But you might have lost your faith. Or your hope. Or even your way. Those are wounds too, right? Does it mean God can’t use you?”

  Dan drew in a breath. “You should be a lawyer.”

  “I was a soldier. A medic in Iraq. And a good one. But I’ve always wanted to be a coach.”

  “And you’re good at that, too.”

  “I want to be. Especially after God saved my life. I’m just trying to do my part.” The rain had died to a drizzle. Caleb lifted his face to it. Closed his eyes. “He’s done enough. The rest is up to me.”

  “You and Peter and Ben Franklin.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Dan picked up the bag of balls. “‘God helps those who help themselves.’ C’mon. Let’s sit in my car.” This time he didn’t offer
his hand to Caleb.

  As Caleb followed Dan to his car, he saw a couple parents waiting to pick up his players. He waved, trying to hide his limp, and surrendered to Dan’s dry Suburban.

  Dan started the car to add some heat. “Remember when Jesus washed the disciples’ feet?”

  “Sure. In the upper room, the night He was arrested. After dinner.”

  “Yes. Of course, having spent years with Jesus, Peter knew He was the Son of God. He’d seen His miracles, seen Jesus walk on water. And Peter also knew himself. He knew the man he’d been—he was the one who cried out, ‘Get away from me; I’m a sinful man.’”

  “I understand that. For a long time, I couldn’t bear the fact that God had reached out of heaven to save me.”

  “A lot of men have a difficult time accepting grace. We know ourselves too well.” Dan gave him a wry smile. “Which is why, I think, Peter reacted like he did when Jesus got to him. He said, ‘No, you will never ever wash my feet.’ He couldn’t bear to have the Son of God serve a sinner like him.”

  Caleb drew a breath as Ryan exited the school. He met Caleb’s gaze with a stoic expression.

  “But that was Peter’s pride speaking. He didn’t want God to have to help him. He wanted to be the one who didn’t make Jesus wash his feet. But see, Jesus wasn’t in a position of helplessness—He knew who He was and what He’d come to do, and washing Peter’s feet was intended to show Peter the grace of God. Jesus told him, ‘Unless I wash you, you won’t belong me.’ He wasn’t talking about salvation—in a later verse He points out that they are already clean. He’s talking about that continual communion with God, that humility to let God work in our lives. It takes the washing of our feet by Jesus to be His disciple. We have to be willing to accept His love and grace. And only then are we able to turn around and do it for others. Daily grace, for you, for them.”

  “I have accepted grace—”

  “But have you let Jesus wash your feet here? Or is your pride saying, ‘God, You’ve done enough. Don’t wash me’?”

  Caleb drew in a breath. “It just seems weak. I can’t go through life constantly needing God.”

  “Why not? That’s the point, I think. God says, ‘My grace is all you need. My power works best in weakness.’” Dan turned the heat down. “God is glorified not in your strengths and not in your gratefulness, but in your weaknesses and in your trust in His future grace. In your faith that God didn’t let you down in the past . . . and He’s not going to let you down in the future.”

  Dan clamped him on the shoulder. “Let God wash your feet, Caleb. Or foot, as the case may be.”

  Caleb smiled at him. “Funny.”

  “Just a little prosthetic humor.” Dan’s smile faded. “Think about telling the school board. It doesn’t make you weak. But it does make you honest.”

  “Honest isn’t going to get me the job I want, on my terms.”

  Dan considered him. “I understand why you don’t want to tell the board before the game. But you can’t keep this secret forever.”

  “I’ll tell them right after the game. That was my plan all along. After they decide on the job.”

  “No more secrets?”

  No more secrets.

  He let Dan’s words hum in his mind as he sat on Issy’s porch.

  No more secrets. What if Issy knew that he understood? That he knew the taste of fear crawling up his throat, choking him, and if he could have run and hidden, he would have?

  What would Miss Foolish Heart say?

  It didn’t matter. She wasn’t real. Issy was. Issy had the smile that could right his world. Issy had the laugh that could—

  Issy’s laugh. That was it. She sounded exactly like Miss Foolish Heart. And tonight, as he’d sat with her, listening to her voice as she told about her small town . . .

  No . . .

  I do e-things.

  No.

  I work online.

  No. My Foolish Heart was a national show like The Bean. And Issy . . . Issy was the girl next door. Besides . . . she’d never even had a date. Miss Foolish Heart, on the other hand, knew all about love, the ins and outs, the techniques. She had to be a seasoned dater—probably even married.

  Phew. Imagine if Issy knew he’d been asking a talk show host for help in wooing her. Talk about feeling exposed. Yes, that might set off the panic attack of all time.

  And considering that he’d told Miss Foolish Heart his deepest secrets, well, that panic attack might apply to both of them.

  * * *

  The first time Seb met Coach Presley, a low fog had rolled in off the lake and settled like cotton over the flag football field. Soggy, muddy, and angry not only that his wide receiver had dropped the ball but that his team trailed by two touchdowns, Seb just wanted to tackle somebody. But being only a sixth grader, he had to wait a year to join the school team.

  Seb had been crouched in the huddle, fuming, when out of the fog, like he might be a war hero, strode Coach Presley. And as Coach stopped on the sideline and folded his arms over his barrel chest, he fixed his eyes on Seb. Right then, Seb was speared with the knowledge that Coach had come to the flag football scrimmage to watch him.

  Maybe it wasn’t true, but he only had to believe it to his core, only had to believe that Coach waited for him to call a quarterback sneak and run the ball forty yards into the end zone. And two plays after that, pick off the pass while on defense and return the ball for a win.

  He always became the quarterback—and the man—he wanted to be when Coach watched him.

  Good thing Coach couldn’t see him seven years ago when Seb answered the phone, his head in his hands as he listened to the Cyclones game on the radio.

  I believe in you, Seb. Don’t let this beat you.

  But he had no ears to hear Coach then, his anger, his fears drowning the words.

  Now, he heard the voice again as he stood outside Coach’s room in the care center, staring at the blue and white football helmet pasted on the door.

  What on earth had driven him to see Coach Presley? Maybe the grumbles he’d received from his team today during practice. Worse, when he’d benched Samson, the boy nearly walked off the field.

  He’d watched them fight the drills and realized he had cultivated a team of superstars, a team driven by the fading glory of his coach’s legacies.

  More, Seb had no idea how to really coach these boys into men. Because, well, he wasn’t sure what that might look like.

  He’d spent so many years looking behind him for guidance, for significance, that he didn’t know what to fix his eyes on in front of him.

  He pushed the door open with two fingers. The familiar hospital smells seeped from the room—body odors, disinfectant—and right behind that, he heard the whish of the ventilator, the hum of the television set on low.

  His breath seized inside his chest and he ground his molars together to keep from crying.

  He’d heard about Coach’s accident, of course, but he had no idea. No idea how the coach’s injury might tear away his stature and reduce him to a shell. No idea how his face might lose its features, settle into a wide mass above the ventilator tube.

  Nor how his eyes might have the power, still, to fix upon Seb and send heat through him.

  Coach smiled.

  “Hey, Coach,” Seb said, pulling up a chair in the room. A picture of Coach and his family angled toward him on a side table, but the room seemed strangely void of personal elements, as if Coach might not be here long.

  “Heard you were back.” Coach’s voice emerged raspy and thin. He kept his eyes pinned to Seb.

  Seb waited for more—maybe a question about his past, where he’d been over the past few years—but nothing came. Until he figured out that Coach couldn’t talk more, not with the trach vent in his neck.

  The back of his throat burned. He swallowed fast, forced a smile. “Yeah. I’m teaching math at the school. And, you know . . . coaching. But . . .” He drew in a breath, wishing he wasn’t looking down at Coach
but was twelve years old again, seeing him stride out of the fog. “I’m not sure I know what I’m doing. I thought maybe I needed to focus on some flashy plays, get the team excited about the game. My team, however, is . . . well, they’re more interested in listening to the glory days and running the fun plays than digging in with drills, conditioning.”

  He scrubbed his hands together, unable to look any longer at his coach, hearing Bam’s words in his head. Do you seriously think you’re the only one who’s slept with Lucy Maguire?

  They tunneled through him like acid. Sure, Lucy had made her choices, but he’d been her first.

  The first to win her heart, the first man she’d loved, the first to betray her.

  The first to tell her that men were after one thing.

  She’s broken.

  “Coach, I’m so sorry. I messed up.” He drew in a breath and realized he was crying. As he wiped his cheeks, he stared out the window past Coach’s bed. “I just wanted to be the kind of coach that you were. The kind of man you were.”

  “Get my playbook,” Coach’s voice wheezed out.

  “Your playbook? But I know the plays, Coach. I remember them—”

  “My playbook, Seb.” He recognized the tone, the don’t-argue-with-me gaze.

  “Where—?” But he knew where. Or at least where it had been when he’d been a senior, staying over at Coach’s house all those nights when his father had stumbled home drunk—or not at all. Seb would return to Coach’s house, usually find him up late, reading.

  Coach always invited him in and listened. Or sometimes just handed him a blanket.

  The playbook always sat on the floor, next to his recliner, under his Bible.

  “I’m still proud of you.”

  Seb took Coach’s hand and wept.

  15

  Issy didn’t need Caleb Knight, his dog, or his Thai food.

  Not when she had the My Foolish Heart forum.

  Not when she had BoyNextDoor. Except she hadn’t heard from him in two days. Maybe he had run off with the girl of his dreams.

  While she’d run out of the arms of a perfectly good man and back into her online world.

  “Hello, Lovelorn, welcome back to the second hour of My Foolish Heart. We’re going to wrap up the first hour’s discussion about love letters with a note from Elizabeth Barrett Browning to Robert Browning: